


My Sin My Soul

by whiskeyandspite



Series: Shared Madness - The Hannibal Drabble Dump [8]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Ephebophilia, M/M, Masturbation, Teasing, Underage - Freeform, Virgin!Will, based on Lolita so that gives you an idea., cocktease!Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1394428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hannibal will be in the kitchen now, finally allowing himself to appreciate the space of the house now that Will’s mother is no longer in it. Will can relate to that, at least, to that need to enjoy the space without her nagging and pushing and blatant desire for attention no one wants to give her. Will’s too young to feel sorry for his mother; he hates her instead.</i>
</p><p>In the summer of 1957, Hannibal is 38, Will Graham is 16. They meet on behest of Will’s mother, who is determined to get her unruly son under control, but Will is not just a boy, he is a gift. Beautiful, obstinate and impossible. And completely off limits to Hannibal by all moral and logical thinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drinkbloodlikewine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/gifts).



> This was written quite a while ago, but I figured since I have so many tiny drabbles just floating around, they all need a place to live. Hence this little collection.
> 
> I will post my drabbles up every few days till I've got them all in here, and post more as they happen.
> 
> This little one will surely be continued, I am in love with it.
> 
>  
> 
> [Find me on tumblr! Make requests and just say hi :3](http://sun-to-sirius.tumblr.com/)

Will’s skills lie in making his voice carry. Enough that he rarely leaves his room to reply to his mother, downstairs, sometimes outside. His voice is petulant, whining, and fringed with the most infuriating amusement; he knows what he sounds like, knows the effect it has on people. He hears a muffled reply, the door slam, and the sound of the engine starting and throws himself at the windowsill to see if Hannibal gone too.

His mother pulls away with the passenger seat empty, and Will grins, lip between his teeth before he pulls the window closed and turns to regard his bedroom properly. It’s messy, piles of clothes over the floor, books scattered around records half in and half out of their bent cardboard sleeves. He chews his thumbnail and considers the door.

Hannibal will be in the kitchen now, finally allowing himself to appreciate the space of the house now that Will’s mother is no longer in it. Will can relate to that, at least, to that need to enjoy the space without her nagging and pushing and blatant desire for attention no one wants to give her. Will’s too young to feel sorry for his mother; he hates her instead.

He goes to his door and carefully opens it, hinges well-oiled and silent, just the bare whisper of the door against the carpet as he peeks out. There’s silence. No telltale sound of coffee being stirred, the television not on, nor the radio… he frowns. Perhaps Hannibal had gone after all, just followed on his bike, or taken a walk. Will slumps, disappointed, and then there’s the sound of a newspaper being straightened and he grins.

He doesn’t make his way downstairs, just leaves his door slightly ajar before returning to fall back into bed. The springs squeak, enough to carry downstairs he knows, and since he closed the window it’s getting warmer. He fiddles with the button on the bottom of his shorts and stares at the ceiling, wondering if Hannibal is reading the news, or cheating, flipping to the sports stories or the little comic strips Will sometimes cuts out and collects.

The thought makes him smile and he wriggles in bed, adjusting his position until his knees are bent, toes pressed against the cool metal endboard.

He thinks of how Hannibal will be concentrating on the paper, even if Will were to come downstairs now. How his eyes would still against it but he would not set it down, would not give Will a look as he passes, would not respond to his petulant request for something he can’t have. Ice cream. Or soda. Or a puppy – that’s his favourite to ask for, now. He wouldn’t respond to Will calling him ‘dad’ and dragging out the vowel.

Will bites his lip and lifts his hips up a little.

He thinks of how those hands look against the newsprint, large, with blunt nails so carefully looked after, so unlike a professor. Professors are meant to be dusty and old, with thick framed glasses and stupid voices. But not Hannibal. Hannibal’s words are precise, soft; he has never raised his voice at Will, even when he’d started sessions, had never told him off, had never struck him. Hannibal’s voice curls over Will’s name as Will’s fingers curl into the fabric of his shorts now, drawing them up against his thigh until he lets go and slides his palm over the waistband instead.

Downstairs, Hannibal turns the page of his newspaper.

He thinks of how Hannibal had felt, hard thighs and lean muscle, when Will had sat on his lap, determined to bring some expression to his features as he’d scanned his appointment book. How his breath had hitched, just enough, when Will had shifted back against him, and forward again to get comfortable, how the one hand Hannibal had had against the desk had curled into a fist and rested there as Will refused to shift.

Will draws his fingers over the cord keeping his shorts tied and tugs it until it comes free, loose, and slides his hand under the waistband to curl around his cock.

He’s not hard yet, mind still too scattered to be able to keep a clear enough image in his head, but the grip helps, stirs something low in his stomach that draws Will’s brows together and his teeth harder against his lip. He strokes, practiced enough to know what he likes but still sloppy, still uncoordinated enough to keep it up for long. Will knows what gives him pleasure, he has no reason to settle on anything longer to tease. And yet he doesn’t instantly rub against his palm quickly, he strokes himself hard and then slows his hand down, turning his face to the side – facing he door – and sighing out a pleasurable gasp.

He wonders what Hannibal’s hands would feel like against him, bigger and stronger than his. He wonders if he’d stroke Will up or tease him. Probably tease, probably get Will back for everything he’s done to blatantly wind Hannibal up. He knows how Hannibal looks at him, he makes the effort to deliberately arch his back so his hips are in the air, before he sits back against his heels outside. He makes a point to reach over Hannibal for the paper, or a book, so he’s over his lap and for that small, blissful moment can feel as though the man is going to touch him, going to finally lay his hands where he wants them, where Will does, to slap him for disobedience or push him away.

He whimpers suddenly, fingers pressing harder against him as he strokes a little faster, once, twice, and then forces himself slow again. He thinks about what it would be like to bend over his knee willingly, still dressed, one foot flat on the floor the other just pressing his toes against it as he keeps reaching, for that book, that newspaper, that apple he’d left deliberately to reach for now, how he’d rub against his leg, have Hannibal feel him through his shorts and boxers. Wonders if Hannibal would run a palm over him first, up his thigh against his skin and then up, over the soft fabric against his ass or just strike him, harsh and deserved.

Will jerks, up into his hand and enough against the bed to have the springs squeaking, and moans. It’s a soft sound, gentle and surprised. His hand is wet with precome, the stroking slicker now and much more pleasurable, his knees falling wider apart as he keeps stroking, keeps thinking of how every strike against him would push him forward over Hannibal’s lap, cock rubbing against fabric over, and over, and over until he was whimpering both from pain and need; whimpering like he is now, with such sweet, innocent little noises that carry through the crack in the door and downstairs.

It’s not long after that that Will comes, back arching off the bed, toes curling against the now-warm metal of the endboard, suspended for a moment in complete pleasure as words escape his lips, quiet, high little things like ‘please’ and ‘yes’ and ‘Hannibal’, interspersed and tangled together and soft like air.

He falls back against the mattress and grins, springs squeaking enough to cover the sound of footsteps against the carpet by the door, walking away and downstairs again, hasty in their retreat but still careful. Will moans, a louder, comfortable sound, and stretches back, far enough to reach the roll of toilet paper he has on his bedside table, one his mother insist he keeps for his runny nose so he doesn’t sniffle, and one he uses for other much more pressing things, much more pleasurable and dirty things.

He wipes his hand and stomach carefully, knees still spread and cock now soft against his flat stomach just above where the waistband of his shorts reaches. He wonders if he could go downstairs like this, undone and flushed, hair messy. Wants to, so badly, just to have Hannibal see him, hunger after him and still not touch. It’s such a game to him, so much fun to watch him suffer and restrain himself.

He wriggles out of his shorts and boxers quickly, drawing his legs up rather than standing to do it, and tosses the boxers at the laundry basket before slipping back into his shorts without them. He tugs the cord enough to close them but doesn’t tie it more than to fold the two ends together, still loose, still able to be pulled open by the slightest movement, and then he drops his feet to the ground and pushes his door open to go downstairs.

Hannibal is on the couch, newspaper in hand, and as predicted, does not look up. He can feel as Will watches him, considers his appearance from what his peripheral vision offers: shirtless and barefoot, shorts hanging against his hips by sheer force of will, since the knot in front is so loose. Face flushed with dark cheeks and slightly parted lips that only moments before had been whimpering the sweetest little pleas and promises.

Hannibal’s jaw tenses and he adjusts the newspaper.

He feels more than sees Will pass him, since the boy makes a deliberate effort to push against his knee before falling heavily to sit on the couch next to him. Hannibal lets out a slow breath but doesn’t turn. At his side, Will fidgets.

“It’s so hot in my room.” He complains, tone a slightly different lilt of whine than the one Will uses on his mother. Hannibal would go as far as to call it a needy sound. Regardless of what it is, it’s a sound directed only at him, no one else hears this tone from him. He presses his lips together and says nothing. Ignoring William is the best way to get him closer; he gets infuriated without attention.

“Is it hot in your room?” Will presses, shifting to curl one leg under himself and draw the other up to rest his chin against, and Christ if it doesn’t tug the loose knot looser, doesn’t draw the eyes to the slit in the waistband.

“It must be,” he continues, voice silken and smile the most grotesque parody of innocence. “That’s why you’re down here. You never read down here unless mother’s upstairs taking a rest. And she’s not gonna be home for hours.”

A suggestive dip in tone, and certainly enough for Hannibal’s fingers to tighten against the paper, enough for Will to notice.

“We could eat ice cream while she’s gone,” he probes, shifts so he’s sitting with his back against the arm of the couch, toes working their way under Hannibal’s thigh until he relents and lifts it for Will to burrow his foot under. “Leave none for her, she wouldn’t even notice.”

“You will ruin dinner,” Hannibal says, turning his head just slightly and sending a brief, thin, smile. “And she will certainly notice that.”

Will’s eyes light up in victory at having gotten Hannibal’s attention, but he still pouts.

“Butdad,” that same inflection, that irritating elongation of vowels that set Hannibal on edge in the worst way, and then he adds another word and Hannibal’s composure nearly shatters. “Please?”

“There are fresh apples in the fridge,” he manages, turning a page in the paper without looking at Will, “That is the best I can offer you.”

Will looks like he’s about to say more, push harder perhaps, but then he resigns himself to this, no doubt adjusting his plans from licking melted lines of vanilla off his fingers obscenely to doing the same with apple juice. He stands up and goes to the kitchen, that energy still bubbling within him, not expended by his play upstairs. Hannibal wonders how hard he can push him, how long he can keep his boy on the edge of pleasure before he screams his release and doesn’t whimper it, how long until he’s squirming in his hands and sobbing for Hannibal to fuck him, to push in one more finger, just one more,dad,please…

Will falls just as heavily on the other side of Hannibal as he had the first time. But now he has the apple in his hand to keep him occupied, tossing it up into the air before catching it again, the sound a thick slap against his damp palm. Hannibal counts six before Will switches hands, and three there before he catches it instead, transfers it to the hand farthest from Will and holds it away from him. Predictably, Will makes an indignant sound and reaches after it, stretching his lithe body into taut lines to get at the fruit Hannibal holds farther and farther away.

Will draws up on knee and rests it against Hannibal’s thighs, to reach more, and finally snags his reward, giving Hannibal a triumphant look before sitting back as he had been, back against the arm of the couch and legs drawn up.

“What are you reading?” he asks, working his toes under Hannibal’s leg again, and then over to lie in his lap when Hannibal doesn’t give in as easily as before.

“World news.” Hannibal tells him, folding the paper but not setting it aside. He feels Will wriggle against him, no doubt furrowing his brows and scrunching his nose at such boring ‘adult’ things. If only he knew which ‘adult’ things Hannibal would rather be exploring, and how far from boring they would be for William. The wriggling shifts higher up his thighs before Will lies still again, fidgeting with the apple, his eyes on the task for the moment. Without giving it much thought, Hannibal settles a warm palm against his calf.

Will plays with the apple until the condensation on it slides wet to his hands, the shine gone but the flesh still unmarred. He twists the stem until it comes away, and flicks it until it falls to the floor not far from them. He grins when Hannibal’s lips press together in slight annoyance. But neither move to retrieve it.

Will sits up, draws his legs away and curls them under himself again, leaning closer to hold the apple out.

“You want a bite?”

Hannibal turns to him slowly, eyes dark and only barely narrowed in annoyance. His jaw works before his throat does the same in a gentle swallow. It’s answer enough for Will, who grins and withdraws the offer to take a large bite from the fruit, teeth crunching through the red skin, flesh just barely a shade yellower than Will’s teeth. The juice runs past his lips, enough for Will to make a revolting sound sucking it back up before chewing. It’s still shiny against his lower lip, the flesh still red from where Will had bitten it in his pleasure, and Hannibal’s mind goes back to the writhing body on the bed, the fingers against tender, deeply pink flesh…

“I want to read the comics.” Will informs him, and Hannibal blinks himself back to the present, finding Will crawling over him again to get at the newspaper he had set aside, and he is so tempted to twist Will around, hold him down, and just –

“I’m not finished with it.” He says, moving the paper from Will’s grip, and again they’re in a struggle, both laughing from it until Will moves to straddle Hannibal to get at the newspaper and that’s it, there’s only so much a man can take and he has been patient. He has been so patient with William…

“No just…” he grips Will’s thighs and yanks him down, fingers curled just behind his knees, “Sit there. And eat your apple.”

Will stops moving, perhaps shocked by the touch, or the command as it was issued, nearly hissed through Hannibal’s teeth, but when he settles it’s in Hannibal’s lap how he wants him, knees spread around him and soft ass against Hannibal’s knees. Will takes another bite of his apple and chews with his mouth open until Hannibal is close to slapping the fruit from his hands and bending him over the table. Instead he draws Will closer still, spreading his thighs wide against him until they’re almost chest to chest, Will’s knees against the back of the couch, insides of his thighs just barely brushing Hannibal’s sides.

He’s a beautiful boy, unruly and uncontrollable and completely free, and Hannibal can barely resist him. Even as he has him now, pliant and quiet and spread for him, he still resists. Watches Will consider him before holding out the apple for him to bite, and Hannibal does, carefully, some of the skin peeling from the rest of the fruit as he pulls back to chew it and Will takes a bite of his own.

Hannibal’s hands slide higher up his legs, fingers splayed and dark against Will’s lighter skin until he reaches the hem of his shorts, one of the turn-ups folded down again, in the struggle perhaps, or because Will insists on fidgeting with it when he’s restless. Hannibal adjusts it, and then lets his fingers slide under, eyes on Will in front of him the whole time, watching as his chewing grows slower, until he swallows and doesn’t take another bite, just holds the apple out to the side a little, the back of his hand to Hannibal where he can see a drop of juice slowly sliding down between his fingers.

He folds his fingers under the boy’s warm inner thighs, spreading them steadily wider until that sweet blush is back on Will’s face, eyes growing darker even as his brows furrow in the innocence he can’t hide even behind his callous words and stupid actions. Hannibal’s fingers venture further – no boxers in his way, he notes – until he feels the muscles curve inwards, until the skin gets hotter and Will’s breath hitches as he skirts the delicate skin between his legs, up against the perineum and back to stroke once over the puckered little hole.

Will’s lips part, still wet with juice, and he gasps before curling his bottom lip into his mouth, teeth catching it to hold, top lip folding over to give him a painfully childish look. Hannibal can feel Will’s cock stirring in his pants, close enough to his chest to know, and he’s so close, so close to just picking Will up, laying him flat on the couch, pulling the already loose knot free on his shorts and sliding them down his light, soft thighs… Hannibal makes a noise, a gentle sound to mirror Will’s own when there’s the slam of the car door outside and they both jerk.

Will’s eyes flick to the corridor, wide and blown with arousal, and then he scrambles to get out of Hannibal’s lap, barely keeping balance, shoving the apple between his teeth as his fingers fumble to tie the knot tight on his shorts again. He takes another bite of apple before he tugs it from his teeth, gives Hannibal a brief, dirty grin, and casually walks out through the kitchen and to the garden, jumping up to smack the wind chime with his palm as he always does.

Hannibal adjusts himself as best as he can before setting the paper on his lap and rubbing his eyes.

He would, one day, be marked as dead, his post mortem reading that he was killed by a long-limbed, cruel little boy. He swallows, takes a deep breath, and looks up just in time for Will’s mother to come inside, smiling only for him, and filling the room with shallow talk of church and the people there. Outside, he hears the wind chime sing again, no doubt abused by Will’s unending determination to keep Hannibal’s attention. And he has it, most certainly, more than his mother does


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He remembers the way his limbs had wrapped around him, thin and lithe and weak little things. He remembers the way his lips had felt against his own, pressed tight together, a childish, unpracticed kiss._
> 
> _It has kept Hannibal up nights, remembering, sighs heavy and filled with unspoken things._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this series has become owned by [drinkbloodlikewine](http://drinkbloodlikewine.tumblr.com/) in the last few weeks. Enjoy, love, ~~though I know you already have haha!~~

In the end, it was no one’s fault.

Some people are simply damaged, wounded so deep that nothing can undo the knot, and it tangles enough, at length, to choke them.

And so it was with Will’s mother, running into traffic before Hannibal could even attempt a rescue. One moment yelling at him to understand, the next giving him no chance to by taking herself from the equation.

He looks at her, now, broken and bloodied on the road, and wonders if their marriage now gives him full rights to Will or if the courts will need to be involved. It is certainly not something Hannibal wants to greet Will with when he picks him up from summer camp - his mother’s decision, her last, in regards to her boy, to keep him away from Hannibal, to allow Hannibal to understand he married her for love not coercion. All lies, of course, but the delusions had just added to the knot within her.

Regardless, the news must be delivered to the boy and Hannibal finds no resistance in volunteering to deliver the news himself.

It’s a pleasant drive in all but the news that he carries within him, and two hours outside of the city he reaches the camp, falsely shoddy and sprawling, like a cat in the sun, around a large lake and acres of forest.

Hannibal finds no difficulty in convincing a caregiver to find Will for him, explains the situation with soft words and cast down eyes, and accepts all the gentle words and lingering touches against his arm before he woman leaves. In truth, Hannibal feels no pain at the loss, it had never really been a gain to lose, beyond how close he had been allowed to come near Will for it.

And now he has the closeness, has the right, and nothing stopping them.

He thinks, leaning carefully against the hood of the car, legs crossed and arms the same, of the day Will had been dragged to this camp by his mother, moping and yelling and deliberately upending his suitcase on the street to make the journey that much more painful for her to get him away. He remembers how Will had kicked the curb, jumped over it, in those little yellow shorts of his, those sandals he never did up. He remembers the boy stopping, glaring at his mother before turning to run full pelt back to the house, yelling over his shoulder that he had forgotten to say goodbye to Hannibal.

He remembers the way his limbs had wrapped around him, thin and lithe and weak little things. He remembers the way his lips had felt against his own, pressed tight together, a childish, unpracticed kiss.

It has kept Hannibal up nights, remembering, sighs heavy and filled with unspoken things.

He only looks up when he hears the put-upon shuffling coming his way, and it can be no one else.

Will looks much the same, unsurprising considering they have been apart no more than two weeks, but his skin is a little darker from the sun, his hair curlier from the lake water and drying without being brushed. He has a scraped knee and is deliberately walking barefoot, the soft pine needles comfortable beneath his feet as he drags his suitcase behind him.

He looks grumpy, tired, and Hannibal has to smile, tilting his head until the boy finally looks up - expecting his mother, and finding -

“Hannibal!”

The suitcase gets forsaken, toppling to the dry ground, and Will launches himself into Hannibal’s arms, a warm-wriggling missile that strikes right to Hannibal’s heart, as he feels the boy against him. Skinny arms snake up and Hannibal hoists Will up against him, hands under his bottom like a saddle for him to sit on.

“Are you here to save me?”

Hannibal smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in pleasure.

“I suppose.”

“My hero.”

Hannibal has to turn, and it takes all his willpower to, so Will’s lips catch his cheek and not his lips. Not here. Not now. Not where someone could see. He feels the huff of displeasure against his face and turns back, bringing up a hand to stroke Will’s hair gently.

“Shall we go?”

Will nods decisively, slips from Hannibal’s arms, and runs to the car, leaving Hannibal to take up his suitcase and discarded sandals to put them in the trunk.

-

“I was thinking we could take a roadtrip.” Hannibal suggests, voice quiet, smile directed at the boy by his side, who lies sprawled across the front seat, feet up against the dashboard, shorts hanging loose around his thin legs. He’s met with a grin when Will glances over.

“Mom won’t care?” he asks. Hannibal shakes his head and is rewarded with an utterly wicked grin before the boy laughs.

“You dirty old man, you could be kidnapping me. I could say you are.” he bites the side of his thumbnail and regards Hannibal in light of the new threat. Hannibal just blinks, tilts his head, then reaches over to jab Will gently in the side, sending him into a fit of shrieking giggles and curling in on himself to avoid more tickling.

“Not a long trip,” Hannibal continues, “Just a few days before we go home again. Just you and me.”

Will regards him with narrowed eyes, and slowly, carefully, bites his lip before nodding.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Just you and me.” Will grins, one hand dropping to fidget with the cuff of his shorts again, folding and unfolding the flap there and drawing Hannibal’s eyes too low, too close, to what he has only ever skirted with the tips of his fingers.

The smooth skin, the downey silk of the promise of hair there, if any, when he grows older. The heat.

Hannibal swallows, looks ahead again, fingers clenching on the steering wheel before he forces them to relax. Beside him, Will reaches out to turn on the radio, tuning for a station that grinds on Hannibal’s nerves immediately but he allows it, lets the boy indulge himself with bad singing and a quick beat.

The car drives on through the summer, windows open wide, front and back, to have the warm air circulate even a little throughout the vehicle, and it’s not long before Will’s whining for a rest stop. For a popsicle, something sweet,

“Just a soda, Hannibal, please?”

They pull over at the nearest gas station and Will scrambles out to choose his vice, for which Hannibal will happily pay, once he sets the pump to fill the car as he waits. He watches the boy inside, bouncing on the balls of his feet in the aisles, running his hands over the candy, shiny wrapping catching his attention as it’s designed to.

The car fills, Hannibal takes up his wallet to pay.

Inside, Will is leaning over the glass freezer, on tip toes as he bends to look at the ice cream and popsicles on display there. Hannibal regards him, the soft curve of his back, down over his bottom, to his legs, skinny and patchy with dried mud and scrapes from climbing trees. He’s a wild creature, a little nymphet escaped too soon with eyes too wide and hair still filled with leaves.

Will turns back, over his shoulder, and leans further over the freezer to lift his feet from the ground.

“Please, Hannibal?” his voice is sinful, a moan, but not quite, a whimper but not that either. Hannibal has to close his eyes and turn away, jaw working, throat clicking as he swallows.

“Six gallons in the car and a popsicle,” he murmurs, handing over the appropriate cash as Will whoops in delight and opens the freezer to select his treat.

After that, the car smells of artificial sugar and an obscene imitation of orange flavor, and Hannibal has to keep his eyes on the road to avoid watching Will suck the long, thick ice between his lips, pull off and lick them after. Slurping, gasping, turning his head to suck the melting juice from his fingers…

Hannibal’s grateful for the radio, when Will reaches for the dial with sticky messy fingers. At least it’s enough to keep him distracted.

“So where are we going?” Will asks finally, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth to suck it clean. Hannibal swallows, turns his eyes just briefly, allowing himself the taste of seeing those lips red with the cold, lightly swollen from it. A taste for his eyes where his mouth is forbidden.

“I was going to take you to the beach.” Hannibal admits, turning a smile to the boy, keeping his eyes on the road, “Allow your skin to darken more before we take you home.”

Will grins, teeth slightly orange from the artificial color, before he resumes his merciless assault on the frozen treat and Hannibal resumes his very deliberate avoidance of looking.

There is no tension between them in the car, otherwise. Will is comfortably sprawled and contented to look out the window, watch the world pass by. Visibly more relaxed than he had been at the camp and Hannibal has to physically bite his tongue to resist asking him if something had happened. If perhaps the grazed knee was from a struggle not silly play with friends. 

Horror images play before Hannibal’s eyes, of the boy in pain, scared, struggling… then the cold terror of the knowledge that those images aren’t scaring him but worse. Hannibal is not a cruel man by nature, he doesn’t enjoy the suffering of others, yet imagining this boy, his boy, forced by someone’s hand makes him -

“We should stay at a hotel.” Will suggests suddenly, eyes still out the window, fingers between his lips one at a time, deliberately sucking away the last of the juice that had slid sticky to his palm, that dries, now, between his knuckles and down his wrist.

“Not a motel,” he turns, eyes on Hannibal now, catching him like a snake would a mouse in that clear blue gaze so Hannibal is powerless to turn away, as Will sucks his thumb deep between his lips and pulls it free.

“Motels are ugly. And we should go to the beach in style.” he finishes, thumbnail tugging his bottom lip before he turns his hand to lick away the trails of juice over his arm.

Hannibal’s lips part and he turns away, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in slow deliberation. This boy, this cruel, sweet, sinful boy, would be the end of him.

“Then in a hotel we shall stay.” Hannibal replies.

He can almost feel the smile radiating from Will next to him. Can almost hear the sound of sirens, police coming to take him away.

He swallows. Will turns back to look out the window again, bare feet up on the dashboard, shorts riding up higher when he slides down the seat more, until Hannibal can see that gentle curve where his legs meet his groin.

He swerves the car. Claims it’s the wind pushing him off the road, and knows, knows, that Will believes not a word.

The hotel they find is just by the beach, it’s perfect, expensive, well worth the money, but

“There’s only one room available, sir,” the clerk tells Hannibal, “A single, with only one bed.”

Hannibal considers, turns back to look over his shoulders at Will, who stands with his head up to regard the elaborately tiled ceiling with delight, hands deep in his pockets, pushing his shorts down enough to leave a peek of pale skin between his shirt and waistband.

“It’s a trip for his birthday,” Hannibal lies easily, turning back, “It would be an awful shame to make him miss the beach. Is there a cot we could borrow, perhaps, for him to sleep on? We will only stay the one night.”

A slow regard, narrowed eyes before the expression clears and the man nods.

“We will find something suitable, sir, and bring it to the room for you.”

Hannibal thanks him, relief flooding him as he takes the key and calls to Will to get his attention.

Upstairs, the room is small but not uncomfortable. The single bed rests just under the window and takes up most of the space that the small table and chair don’t occupy. There is a folded cot standing by the wall and Hannibal wonders where he can even unfold the thing to fit it.

“I want hotdogs for dinner,” Will announces, kicking his sandals off under the table and falling face-first into the bed with a groan. Then he stretches, arches up, turns to regard Hannibal over his shoulder as he draws his knees up beneath him and sits, for a moment, on all fours.

“Will you get me dinner? I’m tired.”

His own obedience Hannibal puts down to utter shock, numbness, of knowing that for one night, at least, he will be sharing his space, this tiny room, with the boy who sets his mind on fire. He goes to the store nearby, purchases everything they will need. He will have to use the kitchen downstairs to prepare their meal but they can do that together. Another space to share. Another moment.

By the time he returns, Will is asleep in bed, sheets kicked up and off and every which way, just the barest base sheet covering his slim form, lying close enough to make it evidently clear that in the heat of summer filling their room, Will is entirely nude.

Hannibal exhales, a sharp, quick thing, and sets his purchases to the table. To hell with the cot. To hell with propriety. He will at least look his fill before taking a cold shower, before washing away the base desires from his body if he can’t quite manage his mind.

It’s just getting dark now, still enough light to see by when Hannibal steps close to the bed and looks, follows the curve of Will’s spine to the crumpled sheet that just reveals the light dimples at the base of his back. Beneath the sheet, one knee is drawn up, the other leg out flat and long in a languid stretch of sleep. Will’s hair is a mess against the sheets, one hand under the pillow to push it higher, the other curled just by his face.

Hannibal starts when he sees Will’s eyes open, blue and almost liquid before he blinks the sleep away.

“I fell asleep waiting for you.” Will whispers, the sound carrying strangely in the small space, or perhaps just because Hannibal’s hearing is honed on nothing else. He stands still, transfixed, heart pumping what feels like acid to his lungs and numbing his fingers.

“You were so long,” he whines, pushing himself to sit, the sheet cruelly falling just enough to cover him, and this time a sound escapes Hannibal when he sighs. The look Will gives him, head tilted, eyes narrowed, is sin itself. And then his lips part and that red little tongue passes over his teeth.

“You’re looking at me like you’ve never seen a naked body before.” Will purrs, voice low, beneath the sheets, when Hannibal allows himself to look, he stirs with interest. A swallow, thick, and Will laughs.

“Hannibal,” he says, and that sounds like a moan, like a whine. When Will sits up higher, this time, the sheets fall away and Hannibal’s lips part.

No more. 

There is only so much any man can take and this is beyond even Hannibal’s endurance.

He doesn’t step back when Will crawls forward and sits up to kneel in bed just in front of him.

“Must I teach you everything?” Will asks, tone almost petulant, and Hannibal catches his lips with his own before the boy can say another word, tasting his smile, his pleasure, the innocent tang of his arousal.

When Will leans back, pulls him to bed, Hannibal goes.

Some knots in some people are just meant to tangle.


End file.
